


School of Lost Things

by DoveHeart



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Exchange student blues, Gardening Dedue, Gen, Gloves, Language Barrier, Lost items, Tags to be added as chapters are added, Worrying Dimitri, updates will be sporadic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-21 08:10:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20690294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoveHeart/pseuds/DoveHeart
Summary: The students of Garreg Mach are always losing things.(Series of one-shots each focusing around a different lost item.)





	1. Black Leather Gloves

**Author's Note:**

> Let's see if I can do this without screwing up.
> 
> The first one came pretty much fully formed, though to my eternal chagrin the location is wrong, but hngh I like it too much to change. Please forgive me. I cannot kill my darling. Future installments will be as canon-compliant as I can possibly get them, I promise.

Dedue was deep in the hush of the greenhouse, where the late sunlight poured through the windows. He was kneeling, surrounded by seedlings in burlap bags of soil, and Dimitri approached quietly so as not to disturb him.

He was never sure what it was inside him that drove him to hide his presence from Dedue like this whenever he could, to watch him as he was when Dimitri wasn’t there. It felt strongly like something he wasn’t meant to see. But here he was again, pushing his luck.

If he’d only turn…

Dimitri stepped lightly to the side to get a better view, but not lightly enough - the plant pot he kicked went skidding off across the path, the sound of it echoing obscenely in the quiet.

Well, that made him turn. “Your Highness.” The mask was back on again, as quickly as that.

“Dedue.” It almost made it worse that he didn’t remark on Dimitri appearing out of nowhere in the middle of the greenhouse, looking, if not actually guilty, then certainly sheepish.

“Do you have need of me?” asked Dedue.

“No. I wanted to watch you work.” He’d learned quickly how to handle Dedue, how to play the game.

Still, it was a testament to how Dedue prized his time with the plants that he condescended to be allowed his free time, game or not. He got on with his replanting, and Dimitri sat awkwardly nearby, twitching his cloak aside.

He didn’t recognise the plants that Dedue was moving, packing into the soil with gentle hands. They could have been the hardy Duscur shrubs that Dedue loved particularly, or any common flower he saw every day growing by the side of the road. He’d never had much of an eye for such things.

Dedue reached for the watering can and found it empty.

“I’ll get it,” said Dimitri, and before Dedue could argue, added, “I wouldn’t want to distract you from your work.”

Dedue made a sound between a groan and a growl in his throat, but didn’t stop Dimitri from going to the well.

He remembered a boarhound they’d had back in Fhirdiad, a big old thing whose only use since before Dimitri was born had been to warm his father’s feet by the fire, and the long-suffering patience it had shown when the castle puppies pulled its tail and chewed its ears. Dedue had that same look about him, sometimes.

When he returned with the water Dedue was pruning one of the larger bushes, running his hands along the branches one by one and pausing every now and then to cut a leaf. Dimitri wanted to ask him how he knew what to do, but couldn’t bring himself to shatter the mystery. Anything he asked for, Dedue would tell him, without hesitation, however private or precious. In many ways this power was more uncomfortable than all the power he had been born to.

Dedue put down his shears and took the watering can from Dimitri. “Thank you, Your Highness. There was no need for you to help, but I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome,” replied Dimitri graciously. “You know, something you said recently, though you’ve said it many times before… I’ve been turning it over in my mind.”

“Your Highness?” Dedue watered his seedlings, the water glittering like falling rubies in the setting sun.

“You say your life is mine.”

“My life _is_ yours, Your Highness.”

“Right. I understand…” Dimitri began to remove his gloves, far too hot for the greenhouse anyway, loosening them finger by finger. Plenty of people had pledged their lives to him - and some had paid what they'd promised - but Dedue wasn’t like them. It felt _different_ and he didn’t know why. “Can we speak hypothetically for a moment?”

“As you wish.”

“If I were to die, what would you do?” By the silence alone he could tell that Dedue was staring at him. Dimitri continued to work his gloves loose. Dedue could intimidate anyone else like this, but not him. He almost smiled.

“Were you to command me to follow you into death,” said Dedue at last, “then I would do it. _Gladly_.”

Reproach? Indignation? Had Dedue guessed what he was going to say?

Dimitri pulled one glove free. “I thought you might say that.”

_Then why ask?_ Dimitri could almost feel the thought emanating from him.

“And were I to command you to live?”

“Your Highness!”

He couldn’t resist; he sneaked a glance. By the set of Dedue’s jaw, anyone would have thought Dimitri had asked him to - but no, there was nothing Dimitri could ever ask of him that would anger him. Except this, apparently.

“Would you?” Dimitri tried to lighten his tone, soften the words into a tease, but he was no good at making jokes anymore. The words sounded pleading rather than playful. “Live a long life? A happy one?”

“Your Highness, this is hardly a fitting conversation to-”

“Oh? I find it rather practical.”

Dedue continued to hold his gaze and Dimitri almost lost his nerve, but forced himself to stare right back. Losing his nerve wasn’t something he would ever be able to afford to do in future.

“You know I would not disobey your orders,” said Dedue at last, and got to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me, Your-”

“I will not.” The words were out before Dimitri could bite them back, far too petulant, and his hand was on Dedue’s shoulder before he could stop it. “Dedue, no. Wait. I’m sorry for offending you.”

“I am not offended.”

“Angering you, then. It’s a shabby way to treat you.” He couldn’t let go of Dedue’s shoulder without drawing attention to the fact that he’d taken hold of it in the first place. When was the last time he’d touched someone outside the training ground? And bare-handed? “I just… I thought it might make it easier if I could know...”

“It should not be easy, Your Highness,” said Dedue, as implacable as a mountain.

“This from the man who regularly pledges his life to my whim.”

“But you would not misuse it.”

“No,” admitted Dimitri. “I wouldn’t.”

“Then if there is nothing more to say…”

“Stay,” said Dimitri. “Please. I won’t have you chased out of here by anyone, not even me. I’ll go.” He let go of Dedue's shoulder cautiously, and Dedue continued to stand there, waiting. “I’ve… I’ve made a mess of things again, haven’t I?” He should go. It was time to go. He didn’t move, staring at the green shoots and unfurling leaves in the late sunlight.

“I would appreciate some help, if you wish to stay, Your Highness” said Dedue at last.

“What?”

Dedue sat down again, and Dimitri, confused, followed suit.

“Please hold this.”

Dimitri held out his hands and Dedue deposited a handful of damp soil into them, a seedling nestled in the centre.

“Something is bothering you, Your Highness,” said Dedue once Dimitri was stuck there with a plant in his hands, unable to get away. “What is it?”

"Nothing." The soil smelt pleasant, rich and dark. Comforting somehow. "Nothing that I can do anything about, anyway."

Dedue turned over the black earth in rhythmic, steady movements, and Dimitri watched.

"The future... weighs on me."

"The future is a heavy thing. So we believed in Duscur."

"I wonder what kind of world I'll shape, once I ascend the throne. I have... Sometimes I dream. Of being with all the other ghosts, years from now, looking at the things I've done, the things I've made. I never remember the details, only the... feeling of looking down on it all. It frightens me, what might be."

The tender leaves of the plant in his hand were quivering. Dimitri stared at it, almost afraid to move. He'd broken stronger things than this without even thinking about it.

Dedue continued to work.

"If I could know that you at least were... then that would be something... Whatever else I do... if you were... happy." He tailed off helplessly.

"Your Highness," said Dedue.

"If you tell me one more time that weapons have no feelings I'll dismiss you from my service."

"I was going to say that I am already happy, Your Highness," said Dedue.

"Oh. Then… I'm glad."

Dedue nodded, and flicked a fly off a flower.

"I'm sorry to burden you with such foolish things. Dreams and childish worries."

Dedue ignored the apology, as he ignored everything he found unimportant or unnecessary. Dimitri waited for him to take the seedling back, but he just kept on working, planting all the others.

"Do you need this?" he asked at last.

"That one is not ready to plant yet."

The fly that had been buzzing around the beds came to dart around Dimitri's seedling, and Dimitri, hands full, blew on it to shoo it off. "Then why-? Ah. I see." Dedue had also learned how to handle him.

"We should hurry if we're to get to the dining hall while there's still food to be had, Your Highness."

"I suppose we should."

Only then did Dedue scoop the handful of soil from Dimitri's hands, warm and careful, as though it was something he did every day. 

"I apologise for the mess," he said, once the seedling was back in the bag.

Dimitri shook his head. He kept his hands in loose fists all the way to the dining hall, the last grains of soil black and damp and warm in the lines of his palms, the creases of his fingers. As if to retain the feeling of holding something alive in his hands.

*

The moon was high when the greenhouse keeper locked up, but even in that pale light through the high windows she saw the gloves on the floor. She sighed as she picked them up. Fine, soft black leather, and made with the sort of craftsmanship no one she knew would have been able to afford to gaze upon, let alone buy. Let alone wear. Left here on the floor as though they were bought ten a penny from the market.

"These students," she grumbled. "They get more careless every year, I swear."


	2. Exotic Flower

Fódlan turned too slowly for Petra’s liking. It had taken half the year to get even a little warm, and it was still raining more often than not. They called it the Verdant Rain Moon; ‘verdant’ for the lush green vegetation that the rain would bring, she was promised. It was still a little faded compared to her memories of Brigid. She wore a Brigid flower in her braid today, just to remind her what colour was. At least it wasn’t raining now. The sky had cleared for once, even the rainbows (rain and rainbow, see the connection, ‘bow’ meaning ‘arch’) wisped away to nothing. Clouds hung over some of the other peaks, but as long as they stayed there Petra wouldn’t complain.

She hung around in the Reception Hall (‘reception’ from ‘receive’, ‘to receive e.g., visitors’) with her pockets full of breadcrumbs. She’d feel better when she was outside, in the real sun instead of the chandelier light and the shadows that haunted every corner of Fódlan.

“Petra?” asked Dorothea from behind her.

Petra put on her innocent face, the curious foreigner face. “Do you have need?”

“Just wondering what you’re up to out here. The weather’s turned nice.” She grinned slyly at the look on Petra’s face on hearing that - nice? This five minutes of sun was _nice_? “Do you want to go walking?”

“I have plan,” said Petra.

Dorothea cocked her head. “Plans?”

Plan - scheme, strategy, tactics. To have plans - to have made arrangements for a set time. This _language_.

“Plans,” she confirmed.

“Doing what?”

“I…” Petra hesitated. “Is hard to explicate.”

“Explain,” said Dorothea flatly.

“Excuse me?” said Petra.

Dorothea looked shocked and burst out laughing. “I meant the word is ‘explain’, it wasn’t a command! I’m sorry, that sounded awful.”

“Explicate is not a word?” Her dictionary said it was a word. Explicable, inexplicable, explicit, explicative, all these words said that there had to be a verb, and the rules of putting words together said it should be ‘explicate’.

Dorothea shrugged. “Well. Nobody uses it. It’s old-fashioned. ‘Explain’ is better. Anyway, you don’t have to explicate yourself to me. I’m sure the fish will be very grateful.”

“Excuse?”

“The fish,” said Dorothea, more clearly. “That you’re obviously going to feed as soon as the fishkeeper’s back is turned. I saw you slipping leftovers in your pockets at dinner.”

Petra slid her hands into her pockets defensively.

“It’s none of my business,” said Dorothea. “Just, you know they have people who do that already, don’t you?”

“Is different feeding,” said Petra.

“Whatever it is, it isn’t how nobility is expected to behave in Fódlan.” The words by themselves were simple enough, but Dorothea spoke them as though there were layers and layers of meaning behind them, only for herself. “Just a word of advice.”

“Is not nobility feeding, is religion feeding.”

“Sweetheart, that’s worse.”

The only reply she could formulate was, “Then if nobility is here, I don’t do.” Which was terrible and rude, she knew, but she just couldn’t get hold of the words.

Dorothea took it… somehow. Petra couldn’t read her expression. Did she find it funny? Was she angry? Shocked? She laughed, anyway, and said, “No need for me to worry about you, obviously. You’ll fit in the Empire just fine.”

“Dorothea, please-” Petra went to follow her, braid whipping behind her and sending her flower fluttering off into a corner.

But Dorothea wasn’t coming back.

And Petra had somewhere to be.

She went out into the evening and watched the fishkeeper throw a last scattering of food over the pond. The fish all rose to it, making splashes and pops and every sound water could make in their frenzy (almost universally onomatopoeic sounds, as though water in Brigid and Fódlan spoke mutually intelligible languages).

When the fishkeeper had gone she crept down to the far end of the pond where no one ever went. She wasn’t meant to be here. She knew that much. But it wasn’t a holy rule, just a normal rule, so it wasn’t so bad to break it.

Why the fishpond? She never knew. Petra had always been one for the forest, on better terms with the tree spirits than the water spirits, and there was plenty of woodland surrounding the monastery, but within the walls she found herself always drawn to the fish in their pond.

She swatted away curious dragonflies and midges from her hiding place among the crates and barrels, and soon came the sound of closing doors and turning keys as the fishkeeper locked up the rods and bait.

She felt bad about Dorothea, but Petra couldn’t explain the difference between ‘food’ and ‘offering’ in the Fódlan language, let alone the difference between the fish which ate the fishkeeper’s food and the other fish, same and separate at once, which would eat the offerings and in turn continue protecting the monastery. She’d learned all of her language from books, and no Fódlan book spoke a word on Brigid traditions. She had all the words she could ever have wanted to describe the minutest details of Imperial customs and society, but none for her own. She knew the name for a noble whose territory fell on a border, and a noble who had a small territory within someone else’s, and every rank of responsibility and standing. But there were no words for the women who sat behind the elders of a village, or the boys whose job was to tend the temple flowers. No words for the water spirits or tree spirits or stone spirits or what made them different one from the next.

She scattered her own breadcrumbs over the water and thanked the fish for their work in her own language. Just to rest her tongue a while.

Fish fed, Petra took off her boots and socks and slid her feet into the cold water with a sigh of contentment. A good day for swimming. She hid her boots and the rest of her clothes among the barrels before lowering herself into the water. The pond was so deep she had to swim to touch the bottom, and more than once she’d stirred up little shadowy things along with the mud when she’d done so, skittery things (a nice word, ‘skittery’) and nipping ones. Vigorous spirits.

They were so strange about their gods in Fódlan, keeping them in these huge purpose-built palaces, having their words interpreted by others, always keeping that fearful distance. In Brigid they walked with the gods, hunted with them, fished with them, ate with them, spoke with them.

Something cold brushed Petra’s leg and she dived to follow, catching gleams of silver through the murky water. Memories of games she’d played as a child filled her, games of chasing fish, trying to hang onto them and have them tow her through the water like they did the princesses in the stories the women told while they tanned the hides and sharpened their arrows. She kicked and pointed her feet and flew like an arrow herself through the water, reaching out for those quick smooth shapes until she had to surface again. She threw her water-heavy braid over her shoulder and scattered water that caught the setting sun. Even now that sun was warm on her face and shoulders, drying her quickly. Then back under again.

“Hey! Hey, you! No swimming in the fishpond! Hey!”

Petra didn’t hear. She kicked through the cool dark and for a couple of glorious seconds she held a huge writhing pike (named for its long thin jaw, resembling the lance-like weapon, easy to remember) in her hands, that towed her through the water like she was a princess, then thrashed and glittered and finally slipped free to vanish in the depths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been an exchange student, and it's... complicated.
> 
> I've also taken some liberties with Petra's use of language (as you've seen). All I seem to do here is beg forgiveness...


End file.
